(Being an occasional excerpt from my novel Spank – The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown)

They were sitting on her antique Chippendale chairs across from each other at the dining room table of her cozy little flat near the Ebury Street Bridge. As he had expected it was heady with the fragrance of flowers. Dolly Bloom, looking her usual ample self in a floral frock trimmed with several yards of Belgian lace nudged a plate of chocolate digestives in his direction with a plump elbow and poured him a cup of her finest Sri Lankan tea.

“Out with it,” she demanded. “What sort of a novel are you writing, romance, suspense, crime, comedy, a whodunit – I love whodunits – what’s it all about, Georgie?”

George took a deep breath, making a quick check on the crook in his little finger.

“The genre is erotica,” he said. “Erotic discipline, spanking really, there’s quite a bit of that, but there’s lots of other sex in it too.” George thought it best if he came right out with it.

Dolly put down her chocolate biscuit and slowly raised an empty hand to her mouth. She was blushing like a prize-winning petunia.

“Oh, my, is it now? Spanking, you say.” She said the word carefully as if she might break it. It was not something she herself was accustomed to saying. She shifted uneasily on her Chippendale chair.

“Yes, but it’s more than that,” George said. “It also has some of the other elements you mentioned, comedy, satire, history. My intent is not just to titillate, but to entertain.”

“Go on, I must say it all sounds rather interesting.”

So he explained to her about his hero Dr. Whom and his adventures in space and time with some of history’s most famous characters.

Dolly poured him some more tea from her china teapot.

“These women that he meets on his travels, Cleopatra and the like, does he spank them?” She was now saying the word with resonance, giving it the full percussive treatment. If you did not know her to be a very proper lady you might surmise she was beginning to like the sound of it.

“Not all of them, most of them.”

“So these….. spankings….. Dolly seems to be having trouble sitting still, are all in historical context, then?”

He told her about Catherine de Medici, his visits to the National Museum and all the research he had done. When he had finished and she re-filled the teapot. George noticed she seemed flushed. But why? Flushed with excitement, perhaps?

“Is it possible?” he thought to himself.

He knew that Dolly Bloom was a stickler for protocol and rule No.1 of the Pimlico Literary Appreciation Society was No Sex, meaning no hanky panky between members. Experience had taught them that little affairs led to petty jealousies and then people invariably took sides and the whole thing got nasty and the next thing you knew the Book Club was in group therapy and the whole sorry mess was a distraction to their literary discussions.

But George was not visiting Dolly solely to enjoy her company over tea
and biscuits. He needed to test the theory, as the American writer had suggested, that in the right time and place women like to be spanked, revelling in “the helpless display” of their bottoms.

“Well” George thought to himself. “Dolly has more than enough in the display department.

It was time to assert his assertiveness.

“Ahem,” he begins. “Dolly I have been meaning to speak to you about your behavior at Book Club. Do you really think it was fair to suggest to Mrs. Prenderghast that she was an illiterate dimwit simply because she seemedto be of the opinion that Michael Ondaatje’s And No Birds Sang was an anthology of disappearing songbirds. And suggesting to Mr. Horowitz that he should stick to Readers Digest if the comparisons with Rousseau in William Boyd’s True Confessions were beyond him, was, well, belittling. And, and,” his voice rose in
timbre just a little, “to propose to club members that our next book should be Feuchtgebiete, knowing full well that it’s totally concerned with the vaginal and other bodily secretions of a German talk show hostess and that during public readings women have actually fainted, was beyond the pale. For these transgressions you deserve to be soundly…”

But Dolly was joyously and spontaneously ahead of him. Hoisting her considerable skirts she ran around to his side of the table and settled contentedly over his knee.

(Being an occasional excerpt from Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown)

By Fly on the Wall

Now the evening’s entertainment proceeds to its historic conclusion.

From among the serving wenches one is chosen by popular acclaim and indeed, through the perspective of four thousand lenses all of which have been evaluating the contenders, I can report without fear of contradiction that not a prettier bottom exists in all of France. Its cheeks are pale and flawless, exquisitely firm and round and from the base of her spine to the great divide is a thin line of golden down like the fuzz on a peach. But of all the wenches, clever girl, she has hitherto revealed the least of herself, offering only brief, tantalizing glimpses to the assembled who are lusting and panting to see more. Only I, the fly, can take a closer look, which I now do in the interests of full and complete disclosure. I make a darting foray beneath her skirts, although unlike the oaf Boesse, now sleeping it off in the castle dungeon, I look but don’t touch, at least that’s my story, and keep a respectful distance from her maidenhood.

Now is the turn of the noble women to bare their bottoms for royal approval and from among these Catherine de Medici will choose her champion to go against the wench. To the music of madrigals the ladies of the court assemble on stage holding hands as they circle the Queen in a slow and courtly dance. They are masked to hide their identity but otherwise are naked except for silk scarves around their necks that hang just low enough to protect their modesty. As they move the silks drift and sway and the audience, now in raptures, drifts and sways in synchronized voyeurism. Finally, with a great roll of drums, Her Majesty makes her choice and bids her champion remove her mask. There are gasps of astonishment. It is the lovely Angèle, youngest daughter of the Duke of Avignon, newly arrived in court.

Now the throng is on its feet. Should the grand winner be the aristocratic Lady of Avignon or should it be the people’s choice, the maid Marianne of Armentieres. There is a great clamor in the house and loud debate.

And here, regrettably, I must draw a veil of my own for to identify the winner would be indelicate at best and at worst would attract the retrospection of historians. But I, Doctor Fly, am not quite done yet. As a final act – as my time here is almost up – I will play a choreographer’s role. When the winner has received her five gold pieces and in gratitude has assumed a position over the Queen’s knee to receive a royal spanking, I make my move. Unseen by the mob which is now jostling for position like revolutionaries at the palace gates, I land on one of her beautiful buttocks and sit there as still as a freckle.

Alas, there is no time to enjoy the moment as I have soon to take evasive action. The Queen’s hand falls swiftly and without warning, but whether she’s swatting the fly or spanking the bottom it’s not clear. By the time her hand lands on one cheek I have jumped to the other. Back and forth I go, forth and back, until the buttocks beneath my feet redden and squirm and the recipient of the Queen’s largesse utters little mewling cries of pleasure. And then with a nod to the Bishop of Boulogne who I now observe is groping the buttocks of the Dowager Bergerac, I seek refuge in the nether regions.

Mon Dieu!

It’s warm and damp down here as you might expect of a maiden in arousal. Moistened and aromatic hairs entangle me like reeds in wetlands. And then in milliseconds I am gone.

(Being an occasional excerpt from my novel Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown, in which Catherine goes punting on the River Cam)

We have found ourselves in a grassy clearing secluded by mulberry bushes and elm trees where we lay out our blanket, the gentle swell of the river at our feet. It feels like there is no one to disturb us for miles around. For a few blissful minutes we lie silently together staring at the high summer clouds, listening to the river and the birds singing, breathing in the fresh air and the fecund smell of the countryside. We kiss, at first shyly, then passionately and when I feel his hand on my breasts I close my eyes, my nipples hardening to his touch. I turn on my side while he slides his hand under my frock, stroking my thighs, moving higher, teasing the soft down of my pubic mound, settling on the plump roundness of my buttocks. I moan and move seductively beneath his splayed fingers. Hungrily, we tear off our clothes and kiss long and deeply. I can feel him hard against me and I sense he is ready to make love. I get to my knees showering him with kisses, my mouth and tongue moving down his body. But before I reach his manhood, he sits up and whispers in my ear, words that make me catch my breath.

“Excuse me, but what did you say?”

“What I said, Catherine, was ‘Have you ever been spanked?'”

My heart pounds, and I’m thinking, well yes, but it’s been a while. Memories come rushing back of the headmaster’s study, on my 18th birthday to the music of flutes and oboes. The magic of it. Somehow I manage to stay calm.

“Well, yes, once, when I was eight,” I reply. He would get no more help from me than R.C. Montgomery did. “Mummy thought I was teasing the kitten when I wasn’t, honestly. I was just playing dress up. She was furious and…”

“Not what I’m referring to,” he said.

I laugh. “I know what you’re referring to. And why do I deserve a spanking, pray tell?”

“For flashing me back there. Are you aware that willfully distracting the operator of a passenger vessel while under way is an offence under the Rivers & Inland Waterways Navigation Act of 1652? I might have run into something, we could easily have capsized.”

He thrust out one arm striking an oratorical pose:

Full fathom five

Lies Ryan’s punt

sunk by silken thighs

and thy sweet cunt.

“And exactly what sort of punishment,” I shyly enquire, “is proscribed under that rivers thing act of 1652?”

“First offence – a spanking.”

Again, the oratorical pose.

I think that I shall never find

A bottom needier than thine

This is wonderful. The first time was to Ravel’s Bolero. Now apparently I’m going to be spanked in iambic pentameters. I’m not about to appeal the sentence, but two can play the poetry game. I strike an oratorical pose of my own.

Good Sir, I bow with due submission

Bottoms up to your petition

So saying, I slide over his lap, thrusting up my buttocks. I feel them caressed by the breeze and I waggle them enticingly until I feel a restraining hand in the small of my back. In this position I can reach behind to hold him. How long and slender his cock feels, how soft, yet so hard. He pauses a few seconds, stroking my bottom, then begins, three on the right cheek then three on the left in quick succession. This is a harder spanking than the last time and I feel my cheeks instantly reddening. The sting is exquisite. The pace quickens, then slows, then quickens again. After a few wonderful minutes he pauses and I feel his lips and tongue. I’m on fire and close to coming. He senses this, clever boy, and lies back, holding his cock like a mast for me to mount at my leisure, which I am just about to do, when suddenly we hear a rustling in the bushes and someone bursts on the scene.

(An excerpt from my novel Spank: The Improbable Adventure of George Aloysius Brown)

Yesterday (how long ago it seemed) the spanking had been random, some soft and caressing, some hard and stinging. I was learning fast. Artfully administered a spanking can last as long as you want. But the strap requires a more rhythmic delivery. The twin leather tongues lick my buttocks and I moan with each stroke. Occasionally he pauses and allows the leading edges to trail teasingly across my sex, then offers me a taste. I take it hungrily. He kneels behind me to deliver the ritual six, as before saving the best for last. I straighten up at his bidding and rub my bottom. He puts the strap back in its box and opens the lid of its twin.

From box number two, lined with red velvet, he produced a black glass replica of an erect penis, so beautifully crafted you could see every vein. My knees buckled and I put one hand on the desk for support. I swear I have never imagined so perfect an object. It was, as far as I could tell, made of molded glass in shades of night, the head a deep purple, the shaft gracefully curved, as smooth as the African voices that filled the room. I felt a desperate longing. He handed it to me and instinctively I took it to my lips. It was not large, maybe seven-inches long and four or five in circumference. Beneath the head, my tongue traced the outline of a small s-shaped vein. I moistened the head and shaft and handed it back. I tore off my t-shirt and bra showing him my breasts and bent to lay my head on his desk, my red hair spilling onto the surface, the glass top cool against my swollen nipples, my sex wet with desire. I was on fire. As before, he moved to a position behind me, knelt, and with his left hand gently parted my cheeks. This time there would be no waiting.

(One of occasional extracts from my novel Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown)

Pem Surjani settles over her husband’s knee with a small sigh of satisfaction. There is no hurry. He will keep her waiting. He always does. Time is on her side now. He places one hand on the small of her back as if holding her captive and with the other he strokes her thighs and buttocks. She stretches luxuriously, arching her back for him. Nothing is said. Each has a part to play in the early morning drama now reaching its climax behind slatted wooden shutters. The anticipation is exquisite. Sensing he is about to begin, she reaches behind to hold him, her slender fingers closing gently around it. The heat, its animal hardness, causes her a sudden intake of breath. No matter how often he spanks her, it excites her as if it were the first time. She gasps and moves to the rhythm. When her buttocks are red and stinging she straddles him and they make love. It always ends in making love.

Being the ninth of occasional excerpts from my erotic comedy Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown.

(Part 2/2 Dieter’s trial continues on a charge of indecent exposure)

At this point, the court adjourned for its morning break, so that her ladyship, who loves horses even more than birds, could study the Racing Form and mark her card for the afternoon races at Sandringham. She liked to place at least one bet on a whim, usually based on word association and there were several contenders that caught her eye based on the evidence so far before her: Rising Rocket in the 2:30, Morning Glory and Great Expectations in the three o’clock, and In Tight in the four o’clock. She finally settled on Right Honorable Member in the Breeders’ Cup and made a hurried phone call to her bookmaker.

“You sure about that, Geraldine, the odds are pretty long,” he told her.

“Apparently, so is the member.” she laughed. “Twenty quid each way.”

When court resumed, Dieter Schitler elected to take the witness stand to give evidence on his own behalf. George had briefed him to describe events exactly as they had happened, to do so plainly and simply without embellishment. On the perplexing problem of his persistent erection he patiently explained the surgical procedure that had enhanced it and, because of all the excitement going on, his temporary inability to deflate it.

Lady Warmington listened with mounting incredulity.

“Flicking a little switch, is that all it takes?” she asked him. “Like turning on the lights?”

She was fascinated by the mechanics of the defendant’s ‘huge erection’ and had conjured up a mental image that was not altogether displeasing.

This prompted more laughter in court and the gavel got another pounding.

She was also increasingly concerned that she might have picked the wrong horse. She quickly consulted her oracle concealed in a copy of The Legal Review. Damn! She knew it. A three-year-old called Pumped Up was a late entry in the final race. Her ladyship was wondering if she had time to change her bet. There might be if she got on with it. She fixed the defendant with a steely stare, exhibiting to Court Room No. 1 the full might of magisterial authority.

“So even though you admit you had an erection, there was no intent on your part to have one and still less to exhibit it in public,” she said.

“That is correct, your Honor.”

“Very well,” she said. “You may sit down.”

Lady Geraldine Ponsoby-Warmington JP sat back in her chair and gathered together her documents.

“I find the defendant Not Guilty,” she said. “Case dismissed.” And she headed for the door to her chambers.

“All rise!” bellowed the usher.

In the public gallery George nudged Pem in the ribs.

“All rise, except Dieter,” he whispered.

They had a good laugh over that and then they adjourned to the pub next door to celebrate.

The usher in charge of decorum at Shoreham-on-Sea Magistrates Court called the public to order as Lady Geraldine Ponsoby-Warmington JP entered Court Room No. 1 with a judicial flourish and settled in her seat behind an imposing wooden dais. It was a bank holiday Monday morning when the court is not normally in session, but out of fairness to the defendant, a visitor from Baden Baden, a special session was considered appropriate so that British justice could be seen to be swiftly executed. Her ladyship was not happy. She would rather be bird watching.

The prosecutor rose to his feet.

“Your Honor, the defendant, Dieter Schitler, is charged under sub-section 2 of the Sexual Offences Act of 1872 in that in the Lazy Daze Campground in this borough, in the county of Sussex, he did indecently expose himself contrary to the said Act.”

“How do you plead?”

Herr Schitler stood to face his accusers. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

From a bench in the spectators’ gallery that ringed three sides of the court room, George Aloysius Brown nodded his approval. While Dieter had been fixing his brake he had briefed him on how magistrates should properly be addressed. He had seen enough of the inside of courtrooms during his days in bylaw enforcement to feel confident of an acquittal.

Lady Warmington glanced at the rest of the cases on her sheet; twenty guilty pleas to parking without lights in the fog, one breach of probation, and a probable adjournment on a drunk and disorderly, and decided that Herr Schitler and his allegedly rampant member would at least keep her mildly amused.

“Proceed,” she said.

“Madam, the facts in this case are as follows. Sgt. William Johnson of the Shoreham police detachment was cycling past the Lazy Daze Campground yesterday at about 3 p.m. when he heard a disturbance emanating from said campground including much shouting in German. Upon investigation of a possible breach of the peace, he witnessed the defendant, who was in a state of nudity, adopting an aggressive posture and berating a fellow camper. By this time quite a crowd had gathered. In Sgt. Johnson’s opinion the defendant was in violation of sub-section 2 and therefore cautioned and charged him.”

“Are there photographs you wish to submit to the court at this stage?” asked Lady Warmington, hopefully.

“No, your Honor.”

She frowned.

“Nothing on YouTube?”

“‘Fraid not, your Honor.”

Her ladyship could barely conceal her disappointment. She was thinking, “Every damn thing is on YouTube these days. How can a tourist from Baden Baden waive his whatsit around in my jurisdiction and somehow elude the digital scrutiny of citizen reporters?”

Of course, she made no such comment for the record, instead shuffling her court documents in silent irritation.

“Carry on,” she said.

“Call Sgt. William Johnson,” said the prosecutor.

Entering the courtroom, the sergeant groaned inwardly when he saw who it was on the bench. He had had a crush on Geraldine Warmington when they were both teenagers. She was easily the prettiest girl in their class. But he had admired her from afar, too shy to declare his awkward adolescent feelings and terrified of outright rejection. Even now, thirty years later, he felt flustered in her presence. His problem was that under the law covering indecent exposure the crown would have to prove the defendant had an erection if the case were to be successfully prosecuted. And that unenviable task fell to him.

As his evidence unfolded, the dreaded moment arrived.

The crown counsel was on his feet.

“At some stage in your investigation at the campground you decided that Mr. Schitler should be charged with the offence that is the subject of today’s proceedings, is that correct?”

“Yes sir,” said Sgt. Johnson.

“Exactly what was it that you saw that brought you to that conclusion?”

Sgt. Johnson took a deep breath. “The defendant was, was …the defendant was …well…fully armed,” he blurted. He stared at the shine on his boots, embarrassed. He couldn’t bring himself to say the word. Not in front of her.

Her ladyship, however, had no such qualms.

“What do you mean ‘fully armed?'” she intoned from on high. “May I remind you this is not a firearms charge, sergeant; it is one of indecent exposure.”

Manfully, but even more embarrassed, Sgt. Johnson tried again.

“What I mean is, he had a huge… a huge…”

Lady Warmington looked at her watch. She was running out of patience. She had never liked Billy Johnson, a common little boy who always seemed to be hanging around the schoolyard water fountain whenever she swept by with her friends.

“The witness may write it down,” she said, “if for some reason he finds himself unable to say it.”

The usher jumped forward with pen and paper and, like a messenger with a forked stick, duly conveyed the note to her ladyship.

She took it from him, moving her spectacles to the end of her nose with theatrical exaggeration.

“Erection,” she said loudly. “Let it be recorded that Sgt. Johnson’s evidence is that the defendant had a ‘huge erection.'”

At this, the reporter from the local paper could no longer contain her mirth. Her stifled laughter rang through the courtroom and spilled into the hallway.

In the public gallery George and Pem clutched at each other and laughed until their eyes watered. Her ladyship was also similarly indisposed, hiding behind a copy of Abbreviated English Case Law. She was the first to recover.

“Order! Order!” she thundered. “Or I shall clear the court! Now where were we?” she demanded of the court stenographer, who studied her stenography machine and dutifully read back what was recorded.

“…the defendant had a huge erection, your Honor.”

This started everyone off again as her ladyship had suspected it might. This was turning out to be more fun than bird watching.

A coal burning fireplace in the wall opposite the windows cast a flickering glow on the Persian rug before it. A large glass-topped desk occupied the center of the room and behind it, the headmaster’s hard backed chair.

Slowly and deliberately he took the chair and placed it on the rug with its back to the fireplace. He took off his jacket, folded it and placed it carefully on his desk top. I felt a tremor of fear, but it was too late to back out now.

He sat legs together and motioned for me to approach. Seconds seemed like hours.

“Bend over.”

Slowly, I did so. His thighs felt firm and warm. Then with an abruptness that caused me a sudden intake of breath, he pulled up my skirt.

God, finally, finally, I was in the position I had craved for so long, over a man’s knee, about to be spanked. This was beyond my wildest dreams.

“Pull your knickers down.”

The way he said it, the quiet, stern voice of authority, made me shudder. As I moved to comply, he assisted, slipping them to my knees. For several seconds he appeared to be concentrating on the music, but I knew he couldn’t take his eyes off me.

I clenched and unclenched my cheeks. Minutely, he adjusted my position and I thrust up my disrespectful bottom for punishment. I felt his fingertips. Seconds passed. Then, abruptly, his hand fell hard, then again and again, alternating cheeks. Pain fused with pleasure and became a single, wonderful, overpowering sensation.

It seemed that we alone were the creatures of the forest. In the open glades we spurred our horses on and they seemed happy to go for a canter, kicking up their hooves at the abundant gorse bushes that smelled vaguely of coconuts. Sebastian was close on Braveheart’s tail and I admired the effortless way Jen rode. She leaned forward, showing perfect form, as her seat rose and fell in the saddle. I am not such a skilled rider and I was fighting it a little bit. After a while I felt a slight burning sensation between my legs that was not unpleasant. Even so, I was glad when we were in among the trees again and the horses slowed to a walk.

“You okay, Cat?” Jen turned to see if I was still with her.

“Yes, I’m fine.” I said. “I’m a bit out of practice, that’s all. I had trouble keeping up with you and I must admit I’m feeling it a little bit. I don’t want to have a sore bum for the rest of the day.”

She laughed.

“We’re close to the picnic spot now. Ten minutes, maybe a bit longer. Sit back and enjoy the ride.” She gave me a knowing look and turned to scratch Braveheart behind his ears.

I knew what she meant. The girls at school talk about it. The feeling of a powerful animal between your legs, the rhythmic rubbing of the saddle, is stimulating. Some girls say they go horse riding to get physical release. I must admit I tried it once and easily brought myself to orgasm. But everything has to be right; warm weather, how you sit in the saddle, a rhythmic gentle ride, maybe even the time of month, and it helps to be semi-aroused in the first place, which I was. I hadn’t forgotten my promise to Jen. We reached the turn-off from the trail and Braveheart led the way through the trees, about 200 yards to a small circular clearing carpeted with dry moss. No one ever ventured this deep in the forest. It was our secret place. There was a stream close by and we tethered the horses so they could drink from it. Jen laid out our blanket in the clearing and I got our sandwiches out of the saddlebag and a bottle of water for each of us and took them to her. Finally I tucked my riding crop casually under my arm and joined her sitting cross legged on the blanket. She watched me put it beside me. By mid-morning the sun was high in the sky and we could feel the heat even under the shade of the trees. We finished our lunch in silence, relaxed and comfortable in each other’s company with the muted buzz of woodland insects to serenade us. Jen glanced at the riding crop and then at me, but my expression gave nothing away.

“You shouldn’t have ridden off so fast,” I told her. “You knew I was struggling to keep up.” I let her think about that for a little while. She didn’t say anything. She saw me reach for the crop and test its flex between my hands. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.

It was time to play our little game

“Get into position, please.”

For a moment or two she didn’t move, then she rolled onto her tummy and thrust up her bottom. I didn’t keep her waiting. I gave her several swats across both cheeks, the leather tip making a snapping sound on her jodhpurs. She didn’t flinch. I gave her more, harder this time. The riding crop felt good in my hand and made a swishing noise through the air.

Then I paused and put it down where she could see it. I wanted her to see me pick it up again.

“Pull down your jodhpurs, please,”

Immediately her hands went to her belt buckle.

“Good, now your panties.”

“Cat, what if someone sees us?”

“Do it, now.”

She did as she was told, pulling her panties to her knees. Her bottom now presented to me, was plump and round, but not marked. When she saw me reach for the crop she gave a little moan.

It’s my turn to lead. I play with him, teasing him, letting the excitement build slowly. I am the hunter. He is the prey. He lies on his back and closes his eyes as my fingers prowl his body. I kneel at his side, running my fingertips up and down his chest, dancing them lower, drumming on the taut muscles of his stomach, teasing the blond curls below, stalking the pearl-black quarry. I don’t touch it. He moans softly, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Then suddenly I reach for it, squeeze it, stroke it and feel it spasm. A single white pearl appears at the tip and hungrily I swallow it, tasting its sweet saltiness. He cries out and covers my hand with his. Then abruptly he sits up, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me across his lap. In an instant, the hunter becomes the hunted. I feel a stab of pleasure between my legs. Gently, he strokes my thighs and buttocks. I thrust them up, feeling an old familiar longing. And then he spanked me. It was the sweetest, most erotic, most sensuous yet, administered at length until I knew I couldn’t last another moment. I spun away, showing him his handiwork, how pretty in pink it looks. Then I took him, swallowing his black beauty between my burning cheeks.

Afterwards we lay silently together totally spent, not doing anything really. Then Steed gets up and makes me tea. He is still naked when he slides back into bed beside me.